Addendum
by also known as LuLu
Summary: After a changing experience, sometimes it's hard to move on. [post-strike David fic]


_Disclaimer: _Not mine.  
  
_Author's Notes:_ I'm supposed to be working on a parody right now, but…oh well. This was just asking to be written, I guess ^^;;; I'm really not a big David fan, but something draws me to him. Reviews aren't essential, but very much appreciated. (and I'm also going to plug myself -- for a slightly darker read, go for my Jack fic "You Will Not See the Gates" ^^; Pleeeeeeeeease?)  
  


_Addendum_  


  
Sometimes I look in the mirror and say to myself, "What are you _doing _here?"  
  
Yeah, I really _do _do that. And the sad part is, I never have an answer.  
  
I started school again. Papa requested it, and with Papa, a request is never optional. It's strange to be back here, where people talk clearly and without embellishment, though these people really don't know what they're talking _about_. I used to be that way, and sometimes I wish I could be that way again. But I can't ever go back to that, I know. It's funny, the way time does that kind of thing…  
  
"David!"  
  
I jolt in my seat and stare right into the face of my teacher.  
  
"Yes, sir?" I ask.  
  
"It's nice to have your body back from absence, David, but it would be much more appreciated if your mind would join us as well."  
  
The other students snicker. In the past, I would be embarrassed, but now I'm only annoyed by them. Another "Yes, sir" from me, and he goes back to teaching grammar.  
  
They don't know grammar. But they don't care. They never will. Why should I?  
  
I guess it's because people expect things from me. My parents expect me to learn, so that someday I can be successful and escape from poverty. It's always been expected of me. No one expects things from them. They're not expected to learn, to succeed, to rise above…sometimes, they're not even expected to survive. But that doesn't change the fact that, when it really comes down to it, they'll know more than I will ever know, because their lessons are not taught under the roof of a school, but on the street…  
  
"David." My teacher's voice is firm and angry now. "In the hall. Now."  
  
I say nothing in the thick, testy silence that follows; I simply rise and exit, shutting the door behind me. Through the wood and plate glass his words are softer and muffled, but I see him heading towards the door. He's coming out to talk to me. Outside the classroom, he gives me a hard stare.  
  
"What?" I finally ask; I'm sure it sounds forced.  
  
"You haven't been paying attention at all this entire day, David."  
  
"I know that." I pause. "What am I supposed to do about it?"  
  
"Want to let me in and tell me about what's got your mind so occupied?"  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"It might. What are you thinking about?"  
  
"When I was a newsie."  
  
"When you were _what_?" he asks. Then the realization strikes him. "That's right, when your father was hurt, you were working. That's why you were gone. I'd almost forgotten."  
  
"I sold newspapers," I told him. "When they striked, I was there. I helped them through it."  
  
"'Struck', David. Or 'had a strike.' 'Striked' isn't a word."  
  
"I don't care if it's a word or not. I don't care about these things like I used to." He's taken aback at my retort, I can tell. He looks saddened, too.  
  
"David, why are you throwing your education away? You're so smart."  
  
"Learning things here isn't enough. How is this going to help me if I can't get a job anywhere, and I've got to find a way to eat anyway? Or if I'm cornered by some thug, or even just when it's life that's doing the pushing?"  
  
"David, those things won't happen."  
  
"How do you know? They happened to my father; they happened to the newsies…they could happen to me. Life can push really hard sometimes. I've seen it."  
  
"They won't."  
  
"Why are schooling everyone's solution?" I demand, exasperated with this. "There's more than one aspect of knowledge."  
  
"David." His voice is cool and calm compared to my agitated anxiety. "You said you helped the newsies strike. Could you have done that without knowing what you'd learned in school?"  
  
"Maybe," I say.   
  
"Then that's the reason to stay here."  
  
"But I learned a lot of it from my father," I add. "I didn't learn about unions from books."  
  
"I'm sure there were other things, though--"  
  
"--The most useful things I've learned weren't from books."  
  
"If you're talking about common sense, everyone has that, David."  
  
Common sense. That's such a superficial term for the things they know, the things they've taught me.  
  
"Tell me," he says. "What _exactly_ did you learn from the newsies?"  
  
They taught me not to seek answers, but to ask questions. But he wouldn't understand, and I don't know the right way to say it that would make him understand.  
  
"A…a lot of things," I manage to stammer. "It's hard to explain." Isn't it funny how words fail at the most important times?  
  
He sighs and touches his forehead, right under his thinning hairline. "Go to the bathroom, David," he instructs. "Wash your face, and when you come back, pay attention, would you?"  
  
I nod, trying not to sigh. "Yes, sir."  
  
He goes back into his classroom, and I head in the opposite direction. Down the hall, where the paint is peeling from when this building used to be an office, I enter the washroom and, after running it into the sink, splash the water against my face.  
  
The water dripping off my face in fat, round droplets, I look in the mirror.  
  
"What are you _doing _here?" I ask my reflection.  
  
Right now, I wish I knew.  
  



End file.
